


Lost & Found

by melissaeverdeen13



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 09:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14614953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissaeverdeen13/pseuds/melissaeverdeen13
Summary: After the events of 14x23, this is how the future SHOULD look. What's lost can always be found.





	Lost & Found

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only canon I'll accept!

It’s a fact that some things look better on paper. 

Grocery lists, for example. Written out, they’re cohesive, straightforward, a drug for an over-organizer like me. But when you get to the store, especially with a five-year-old in tow, they tend to turn into more of a loose plan than a strict rulebook. Instead of what we went for, something along the lines of kale and cereal, we end up with a cart full of Pop-Tarts, bubblegum and a stray loofah. Harriet loves the multi-colored loofahs that line the aisles. 

Future plans can look better on paper, too, and sometimes it’s a comfort when they seem set in stone. A move back to the midwest was great in theory - living closer to my family, closer to everything I know, far away from the place that caused me so much strife. But what I didn’t take into account was that I would be away from where my daughter was born, where all my friends still were, and where I had once made a life. Just because I moved away doesn’t mean those memories disappeared. For some reason, I thought they would. Maybe, in a small, hidden-away part of me, I wanted them to. 

It would’ve made things easier. 

Relationships are always easier on paper, too. Two people can look completely made for each other at a first glance, only to reveal the opposite when the surface is peeled back. As much could be said about Matthew and me, though I don’t think about him much anymore these days. 

After our car accident in Seattle, we wanted to try our hand at a serious relationship and move in together somewhere far away. Not far away like exotic, but a place where we could get away from the stale feeling of where we’d already been. He came up with California, and I turned it down due to the mentality and hot weather. Instead, I suggested we return to my roots and make a home in the Buckeye state. I was rattled after what happened to me - it was integral to be near my family during my recovery, so Matthew went for it. 

It was hard to leave Jackson. ‘Hard’ is actually an understatement in comparison to the emotional turmoil I felt while he stayed in the place where we had become friends, fallen in love, and been married while I moved away and moved on. The look in his eyes when we said goodbye was indescribable - a thin veneer of acceptance under a thick, swirling pool of despondence. 

I convinced myself I was only projecting, though. The tie we have left is our daughter, of course, who switches houses between the summers and academic years. I get her for school, he gets her for the summer. He wasn’t crazy about me raising our daughter in the same house as Matthew, but I brought up the argument that if I don’t hold any contention over him doing essentially the same with Maggie, he has no ground to stand on. He saw my point, but there’s not an issue anymore, anyway. Matthew is gone. 

Harriet can’t even remember him. She was a little over one year old when she met him, barely two when we split up. It was stupid and naive to think we could try again when we’d separated so dramatically - I’m not sure where I began the thought process of rejoining our union when I’d left him at the altar the first time.

Of course, he still held resentment that didn’t rear its ugly head until it was too late to back off. We had moved in together at that point, and the fights came out of nowhere. I’d be unloading the dishwasher or watering the plants, and before I knew it, we’d be in the thick of it, fighting over nothing. But in reality, we were fighting over everything. In the end, there wasn’t a single thing we didn’t fight about. Whether it was money, time, or the way Jackson and I chose to raise our daughter, he had something to say about it. 

Of course, Ruby stayed with us, too, and our parenting methods were wildly different. I made it a point to never interfere with his, but he could never say the same for me. There was something about Harriet that never sat right with him, I could tell, and I’m sure it was because she is her father’s daughter through and through. 

So now, as I raise her to be a strong young girl, mine and Harriet’s life looks different. It’s just the two of us now in a Victorian house that I restored on my own, very slowly. It’s something I’m very proud of, the home I’ve made for the both of us. She has a huge bedroom with a playroom attached, a circular window on the wall that she loves to read next to. Every afternoon, I get off work early enough to pick her up from school and take her to the library or the park. Then we come home, do homework, and eat dinner together. 

We live a quiet life, the two of us, from September to June. And from June through the end of August, my life is even quieter. 

I stand waiting outside Harriet’s school now, on a blustery, snowy day. I’m bundled up in my Canada Goose coat, hands shoved into my pockets, as her teacher walks my daughter and a few of her classmates out to their parents. 

“Mama!” Harriet cheers, running towards me in her clunky winter boots, arms outstretched. I kneel and give her a big hug, then she pulls away to look at my face. “Today, we had a fire drill,” she says. 

I smile softly and stand up, squeezing the pompom on top of her hat. “You did?” I say. “Was it fun?” 

“It was cold!” she says, easily slipping her gloved hand into mine. “But it wasn’t really a fire. Just a drill, which means fake.”

“Good,” I say. “So, you figured out what to do when there’s an actual fire?” 

“Uh-huh!” she says. “This is what you do: stop, drop, and roll. Want me to show you?” 

I laugh a little. “It’s okay,” I say. “You’d get all snowy. And we have to stop at the grocery store real quick.” 

She skips, lighter on her feet as we head that way. “Can I get a treat?” she asks. 

“We have treats at home,” I say, and she doesn’t put up any more of a fight. 

Once we get to Whole Foods, Harriet tears off her hat and holds it in one hand as she stops to smell the fancy soaps near the door. I watch her for a moment while I stand behind an empty cart, studying her in all that she is. As her hair has gotten longer, it’s grown to look so much like her father’s. Jackson rarely let his get long - in fact, he’ll probably style hers differently when he sees her in a few months - but I love it this way. She does, too. The moment she wants a change, I’ll gladly give it, but seeing her curls so wild and free makes me feel the same way inside. 

“I like this one!” she says, holding up a malformed, purple lump. 

“Go ahead,” I say. “Put it in.” 

“Yay!” 

She walks alongside me with one hand on the cart, eyes on everything. I’ve let myself withdraw inside my mind today, which isn’t all that unusual lately. I’ve found my thoughts drifting to places I haven’t let them go for years - I think it’s because my daughter is in such a flux period of her life. It’s strange how much she’ll have changed by the time Jackson sees her again. 

It’s not like the two of them don’t FaceTime and talk as frequently as they can, because they do. When she misses her daddy, she calls him. But it’s still not the same as being around each other every day, and I’m acutely aware of that fact. Sometimes, in the morning, she looks older than when I put her to bed the night before. Moments like that make me think of him, and make me miss him.

I haven’t let myself miss him since Harriet was a toddler. It’s silly, because nothing can or will come of it. It’s a pointless emotion that takes up unnecessary space in my heart and brain. Logically, I could force it out back then, when she was small. But now, as I’ve grown more sentimental about things in this stage of her life, that feeling is sneaking back in. 

“Mama, you’re not talkin’,” Harriet says, a bit later after we’ve wandered through a few aisles but put nothing in the cart. 

She looks back at me with worry in her eyes, and there’s a pang in my heart because of it. I’ve seen that look on Jackson so many times; and though it’s been years since, it’s still clear as day. I saw it when I woke up from my nearly-permanent sleep when he was right at my bedside, hand clutched in his. He was looking at me like the world would stop turning if I didn’t wake up. I hadn’t seen him look at me like that - like I was the most important thing in his life - in years. 

“I’m sorry, babe,” I say, grabbing a box of oatmeal to gently place in the cart. “I was just thinking.” 

“What were you thinking about?”

I force a small half-smile and shrug one shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know,” I tell her. “How was your day at school?”

She starts talking about her day, going into great detail like I always ask her to. I hang onto every word in the beginning but fall off towards the middle because of a man I see standing at the end of this aisle by the coffee counter. His back is faced towards us - he’s wearing a dark coat and dress pants, he has a shaved head, and from the looks of it, he’s biracial. 

I swear it could be Jackson. I don’t know what he’d be doing in Ohio, but it has to be him. 

“Hold on, honey,” I say, rudely interrupting Harriet’s story. “One sec. Come with me for a minute.” 

I take her hand and she follows, stutter-stepping to keep up as I head towards this man. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. 

“Hold on,” I say, as we finally reach him. 

My stomach jumps when I touch his elbow and he begins to turn around. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when I look into Jackson’s face - elated, nervous, confused - but I don’t have a chance to feel any of those things because when the man turns, I discover that he’s only a stranger - not someone I had once called the love of my life. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, puzzled at the sight of a random woman and her child standing before him. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, words falling out over each other. “I… you look like someone I know.” I clear my throat and duck my head, trying to reorient myself. “Someone I used to know very well.” 

“Oh,” he says, unsure of what to say. Admittedly, I haven’t put him in a very comfortable position. “I… I’m sorry.” 

I shake my head. “No, I am. I’m sorry.”

I grip Harriet’s hand tighter and pull her back down the aisle towards our cart. “Why did you do that, mommy?” she asks, thoroughly stumped as we walk side-by-side again. “That man didn’t know you.”

“I thought he was someone else,” I say. “It was just me being silly, I guess.”

“Who did you think he was?”

I debate telling her, but decide against it. It’s not that I don’t encourage her to talk about her father when she wants to, but at the moment it doesn’t feel right. 

“Someone from work,” I respond. “I just wanted to say hi.”

…

That night, I make dinner while Harriet does homework sitting at the kitchen table by the window. 

“Mama, how do you spell ‘stethoscope’?” she asks. 

I look over my shoulder and smirk at her. She’s sitting in a way Jackson always used to make fun of me for - perched with her legs underneath her on a chair that shouldn’t be sat in that way. He used to call me a weirdo for doing it, so I love that our daughter must have picked it up from me. I can’t help but picture his reaction when he sees it.

I spell the word for her then ask, “Why?” 

“‘Cause,” she says, looking up from the paper again. “I’m supposed to say what I wanna be when I grow up. And I wanna be a doctor like you and Daddy. And you use stethoscopes.”

“That’s awesome,” I say. 

“I wanna cut bodies!” 

I laugh and pour some uncooked noodles into a pot that’s just begun to boil. “What’s gonna be your specialty?” I ask. 

“Babies,” she answers, easily. “Just like Auntie Zona.” 

“She’d love to hear that, I bet,” I say. “Maybe you should call her after dinner and tell her.” 

She shrugs and adjusts the crayon in her small hand. “I wanna call Daddy instead. Can I?” 

“Of course,” I say, answering quickly while still turned around. “You know you can call Daddy whenever you want.” 

“Even in the middle of the night?” she giggles. 

“Well,” I say, turning with raised eyebrows. “You know how your daddy is when he gets woken up, so I’ll leave that one up to you.” 

She laughs, throwing her head back unabashedly, and I smile in response. While I continue to cook, I think about their impending phone call. It isn’t that the two of us will talk - Harriet knows how to work her iPad just fine on her own - but it’s hearing his voice that sometimes gets to me. I’m not sure what it is - maybe the deepness, maybe the familiarity, or maybe the homey feeling it gives me. But I don’t think it should be making me feel that way anymore. 

After we’re done eating, Harriet cleans up her plate and puts it in the dishwasher like I’ve taught her. 

“I’m gonna call Daddy now!” she announces, hurrying to the living room where her iPad is. 

“Alright, honey,” I say, cleaning up the food mess and my plate. “But don’t be too long. It’s bath night.” 

“Okay, mommy!” 

I try not to listen as the phone rings for a FaceTime call, I really do. But the living room is connected to the dining room via an open entryway, and Harriet is sitting on the couch in plain view. I see her bouncing up and down, kicking her legs, as she waits for Jackson to answer, and I see the wide smile that paints her lips when he finally does. 

“Hey, peanut-head!” he says. “Look at that gorgeous face. I didn’t know you were gonna call me tonight!” 

“Surprise!” she says. 

“Are you done with your homework?” he asks. 

“Yep. And dinner!” 

“Ooh,” he says. “What’d you have?”

“Mommy made pasta with white sauce,” she says. “And broccoli and shrimp.”

“That sounds so good,” he says. “I want some.” 

“No!” she says, laughing.

“No!?” he repeats. “Geez. You got mean since the last time we talked.”

I smile halfheartedly as I wipe down the table, and once everything is cleaned up, I peek inside the room where Harriet talks to her father. “I’m gonna get in the bath for a little bit,” I whisper, mostly mouthing the words. “Come get me if you need anything.” 

She gives me a thumbs-up, then turns her attention back to the screen. 

I retreat to the upstairs bathroom and sit on the lip of the tub as it fills, wondering if I’m pathetic for not being happy and satisfied with my life. I’m sure Jackson is. Whenever I hear his voice, he sounds like the picture of health and stability. I bet he and Maggie live together now and have their own version of a happily-ever-after. 

I can’t find it within myself to be miffed anymore. If anything, I’m jealous of that lifestyle, of feeling like everything is in its place. I thought I had that once, but that was a lifetime ago. 

When the water is high enough, I shed my clothes and fold them in a neat pile on the raised ledge. I sink beneath the steamy water and let my chin touch it, knees bent so the tops peek just above the surface. I wrap my arms around my middle and close my eyes, relishing the moment of relaxation in an otherwise hectic day. 

I take a deep breath, still able to hear the rise and fall of Harriet’s voice from the floor below. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I’ve found myself in a deep state of calm when I hear footsteps on the stairs that quickly grow closer. 

“...think she’s in the bathtub, but I don’t know. Maybe she got done.” There’s a loud knock on the door following her words, and I jump out of reflex. “Mama?” Harriet calls, then the doorknob turns as the door creaks open. “Mama, are you done? Daddy wants to talk to you.” 

“Honey!” I say, eyes wide, sinking below the water just in case the camera is turned the other way. It’s not like Jackson has never seen me this way - we took plenty of shared baths while we were married - but that’s not our reality anymore. “No, I’m not done!” 

“Oh,” she says, unbothered. “Do you wanna talk to Daddy?” 

“I…” I say, arms crossed over my chest. “Not right now. Is it something important?” 

Harriet looks at the screen and asks, “Is it something important?” 

“No,” he says, and I hear the laugh in his voice. That stupid, lighthearted chuckle that always used to get me. “No, I just wanted to chat for a sec. If she’s busy, it’s fine, ladybug.”

“She’s not really busy,” Harriet says. “She’s just taking a bath.” 

“Well, let’s let her get back to her private time, shall we?” he says. “Come on. Why don’t you show me that new stuffed animal you were talking about?” 

“Oh, yeah!” she says, then scampers out of the doorway and into the hall towards her room. 

I let out the tense breath I’d been keeping in my chest and allow my head to fall back against the side of the tub. I’m feeling too many things at once, and the strongest emotion is the desire for him to be here. Really here.

…

We’re at the mall on Saturday morning when it happens again. Harriet and I are holding hands walking through Gap Kids, when I see someone I recognize standing at the checkout counter talking to the cashier.

I stop in my tracks and squint, not wanting what happened last time to happen again. 

“Mommy, what?” Harriet says. 

I tear my eyes away from the man and look at her instead, studying the expression of confused annoyance she’s wearing. Again, it’s one I used to see so often on Jackson - the spitting image.

“Nothing, I…” I say. “I just thought I saw someone.” 

“Who?” 

I look towards the counter again where he still stands. He’s wearing a dark gray t-shirt that’s stretched over his back just right, just how Jackson’s used to pull over his muscles. I let my eyes trail further to his dark-wash jeans, and force my gaze away before I get too comfortable. I look back at my daughter to find her still staring at me, wondering. 

“I don’t know,” I say. “Did you want to look at something else in here?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “Skirts.” 

She leads the way while I try to keep my mind and eyes from wandering. We end up in the skirts and dresses section, and I find myself distracted with this man who I still can’t see while Harriet finds armfuls of things to try on. 

He comes our way a bit later, and I stand on my tiptoes until I can get a good look at his face. I take a few steps forward, glance around a mannequin, only to find that I was wrong once again. It’s not Jackson, just yet another stranger who looks eerily like him. When did all these doppelgangers start showing up? 

I sigh and tell myself maybe they’re not lookalikes at all. Instead, he’s just been on my mind. 

“Mommy,” Harriet says, sounding fed-up. “What are you looking at?” 

I tear my eyes away from the stranger and put them back on her. “Nothing,” I say. 

“Why do you keep looking at boys?” she asks, slumping her shoulders before holding up a skirt. “I like this one with the kitty on it.” 

“That one is nice,” I say, and take it from her. “I’ll hold it. Let’s keep looking.” 

…

As the weekend and the first half of the week pass, I do a good job at forcing Jackson out of my head. Harriet doesn’t call him again, and we keep ourselves busy with church activities and a family dinner at my mom’s house. Harriet loves getting together with all her cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, and it makes me happy, too. My mom’s house is a place where I can totally be myself without having to worry about what other people are thinking. 

“How are you doing, honey-bunch?” Mom asks, plopping next to where I’m sitting on the couch. 

“Good,” I say. 

She tips her head a bit. “What’s on your mind?” 

I chuckle a bit. “How can you tell?” 

She touches my chin. “It’s in your eyes. It always has been.” 

Jackson used to say that, too. 

I’m not sure if I want to get into it, right here, right now. There’s a likely chance we’ll be interrupted by a crying child, a huffy sister, or a bored brother-in-law. It’s not the right environment, and my thoughts aren’t even fully formed. All I know is that I’ve been thinking about Jackson too much at seemingly random times. Nothing has changed that would put him in my thoughts so heavily, which is the most confusing part of all. Why has he suddenly infiltrated my life? 

“I don’t know,” I say, sighing. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.” 

“Is everything okay?” she asks, patting my knee. 

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Just going through a transition period right now.” 

“With Hattie?” 

I sigh. “With everything.” 

…

On Thursday at work, I’m sleep deprived and in a bad mood. I haven’t been getting decent rest because my dreams are keeping me from it. And because of that, I avoid closing my eyes altogether and stay awake doing anything I can think of. Whether that be stitching Harriet a new hat, cleaning the inside of the oven, or going through patient files, I’ve thought of it and done it. 

It feels like there’s something in me that’s missing. An itch that’s begging to be scratched, but I can’t quite find where it’s located. The feeling is driving me up the wall and putting me at wit’s end. 

I take a coffee break in the middle of the day, eyeing the OR board and dreading the fact that I have to work late. Harriet has been my only solace lately - spending time with her has been a saving grace - and tonight, I can’t even have that. My mom is picking her up from school and bringing her over to their house for the night, because I have surgeries lined up for the rest of the day. 

And the day passes slowly, almost like it knows how much I want it to be over. I go through my routine and make sure everything gets done, but my head isn’t really in it. I can’t figure out what it is about me lately, but I don’t like it. I need to try and get back to myself. 

After my second surgery is over, it’s just past dinnertime. I’m headed towards the cafeteria, passing the nurses’ station, when I see yet another familiar back and shoulders. 

I shake my head and roll my eyes at myself. It’s not going to happen a third time, I’m not that stupid. I keep walking at a brisk clip, making sure not even to turn my head. I direct my eyes forward and don’t veer off the path, but I’m forced to stop when I hear an all-too-familiar voice. 

“Hey, you,” it says, and my breath catches in my throat. I turn around slowly, one hand to my heart, and look right into Jackson’s eyes. “Did you miss me?” he asks. 

I blink hard, convinced I must be hallucinating. I take a step forward but pause after that, unsure whether or not to believe my eyes. 

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he continues, covering the space between us to meet me in the middle. Before I know it, he’s in my bubble and I can smell him - and it’s the same as always. 

“What are you… what…” I stammer, looking up at his face. “How? What about Seattle?” 

He smiles that magnetic half-smile and lifts a hand to tuck a tendril of hair behind my ear. “Fuck Seattle,” he says, and cups my jaw to bring my face closer to his. 

Before I know it, we’re kissing. And it’s the most welcoming, cathartic, emotional kiss I’ve ever experienced - everything about it is like coming home. I’ve memorized the way his lips move, the patterns his breath takes, and where he puts his hands. In the four years that have passed, nothing about him has changed. 

He’s simply been waiting for me, and I him. 

He takes me home and makes love to me like always, like before. We go slow without a reason to rush, and I let myself feel everything. For the first time since our separation, I open my heart and pour it out for him through my body. I cover his skin in kisses, whisper ‘I love yous’ into his ear, and show him just how much into the late hours of the night. 

He shows me, too. Just like always, just like before. 

When our numerous rounds have finally come to an end, we both lie naked together, wrapped up in one another, using each other’s bodies instead of the bed. We’re sated and happy, and I feel complete in a big way. I hadn’t known what was missing until it showed up at my hospital, looked me in the face and told me how much it missed me and the life we used to have together. 

“I’m sorry for how things went,” I whisper, using the tip of my pointer finger to draw loose shapes over his bare chest. 

“I’m sorry, too,” he says, voice low and comforting. “But what if…” he trails off, seemingly losing confidence in whatever he was about to say. 

I sit up a bit, propping my body on an elbow. “What?” I say.

He meets my eyes and touches my chin gently. He traces the pout of my lower lip and I smile while he does, then kiss his finger. Soon, I move his hand away and go for his mouth instead, where I kiss him long and slow, drawing out the words he wants so badly to say. 

“What if,” he says, beginning again. “You and I were meant to part ways, only so that we could find each other again?” 

I look into his eyes for a long time - where I can see his heart, those eyes that feel like home. Responding without words, I lean forward, hold his face, and give him a long kiss. When I pull away, I rest my forehead against his and breathe in slowly, nodding as I go. 

We still fit together perfectly. When the water pulls away from the shore, the waves always find a way to bring it back. 


End file.
